I have talked with a goat.
She was tethered
alone in a meadow.
Stuffed with grass, soaked
from rain, bleating.

That bleating going on and on
was the brother of my sorrow.
And I responded, first as a joke,
then because sorrow is eternal
and speaks in a voice that never varies.
I heard that voice
in the moaning of a solitary goat.

In a goat with a Semitic face
I heard a cry against every evil,
the crying of every life.